Amber
by DStandard
Summary: Short story. Nazeem of Whiterun experiences fear.


Nazeem lived the high life. Ever since he left Hammerfell to go to the cold province of Skyrim, he's had one successful business venture after the other. But the thing in his life which he was most proud of was, admittedly, his catchphrase. He would never admit it in casual conversation, but yes, a catchphrase that captured all that he was and all that he worked for, into a single arrangement of syllables.

"Do you get to the Cloud District very often? Oh, what am I saying. Of course you don't." It was perfect. Right off the bat, the recipient knew they were in the presence of someone superior.

One fine Sundas morning he woke up and went to his mirror to practice his winning facial expressions and, of course, his catchphrase. 30 minutes should be enough, right? Right. It was time to go put the common people in their place.

What's this? Today a newcomer came through the gate. A Dark Elf in black robes, likely a refuge from Morrowind and driven from Windhelm by racism. His kind is not welcome here either. And who better to let him know than an upstanding member of society like himself?

Nazeem fearlessly strode up to the alien, and readied his catchphrase by getting his facial muscles ready to execute the pattern so often practiced, when he caught a glimpse of his eyes, and paused a single moment. They were black, entirely, save a whitish amber circle.

No matter. A mutant elf, all the more reason to ridicule him. The townspeople gathered to witness him approach, or so that's how he saw it in his mind. The elf didn't move, glaring ahead at him. Aaaaand... execute.

"Do you get to the Cloud Distract very often? Oh, what am I saying. Of course you don't."

The elf continued to stare at his him with those pallid eyes. The momentary confidence bestowed upon Nazeem by reciting his phrase was eroded quickly by the elf's acidic stare. A feeling as foreign as this elf crept up Nazeem's spine, a feeling of impending weight. The air itself seemed to grow heavier and weighed down on his shoulders. The base instinct to run tried to surface but he could not bid his legs to move.

Ting

Ting

Ting

The rhythm of the blacksmith's hammer broke him out of the terrifying trance, but he dare not let emotion show. Composing himself, he turned to the residential distract on the right and decided the elf was degraded enough, he wouldn't dare try something in the middle of town... would he?

Walk faster and faster. But he could feel the void left behind by the oppressive dread. Was that fear? Nazeem had never felt fear in his life before. He didn't like it, and making a mental note to avoid it along with that elf.

The rest of Nazeem's day went by much more smoothly. The shadows seemed more ominous than usual and saw amber flashes in his peripheral vision. This went on throughout the day, but investigating the mind's interpretation of amber circles turned out just to be the glint of torches off of gold pieces. It was somewhat easier to dismiss the shadows after that. A little bit of gold in his pockets always made the days easier, it seemed. But he could not get the Dark Elf's stare out of his head, the echoes that the hammerstrokes made in the intanglible void that the fear left. It was outside of his normal range of emotion, but now that he felt it, he was starkly aware that is existed.

He didn't see the elf again the rest of that day, or all of the next. Business went as usual throughout the day, with shipments to merchants and to the Jarl, but the mental echoes of the pale stare resounded through his daily thoughts.

The elf was gone, he told himself. Scared away by his hard-worked catchphrase, most assuredly. Or at least a wanderer and was only in town for a little while. But he was gone, that's the important part. For the first night in many, he slept peacefully. It took three days of self-iteration that the one meeting would be the only, but this night the warm tingle of slumber came upon him gleefully.

Creak.

Fear leaves a deep wound that takes a long time to completely heal, healing from the surface first, and ripped open by paranoia to begin healing anew.

Rationalizing quickly took over, he lived in a wooden house. Of course there would be creaks. Good, now that THAT thought was taken care of and filed away, he could resume sleep.

Creak. Closer this time. This could not easily be rationalized to inanimate forces. But the now-familiar freezing fear overcame his limbs, forbidding any notion of movement. In short, he was completely helpless by nothing as the creaking came ever closer. And closer. It's by his bedside now.

Nothing. Nothing at all.

Heat. This was not typical of Skyrim, especially not in this time of the year. And it was harder to breathe, in a physical way, not just the fear which had numbed by this point. Then he turned away from the final destination of the empty creaks to his stairs, and saw a bright orange flash.

Fire.

Nazeem's house was on fire.

The Dark Elf first came to mind, but Nazeem's overwhelmingly logical mind retorted against the primal fear with the simple fact that a man in Nazeem's position makes a lot of enemies. This did not make the fear's iterations any less permeating.

Nazeem, look at yourself. You're personifying your fear in your head as a valid entity. Attend to that later, you need to get out of your house.

The way to his door was uninhibited by the flame. Indeed, the flames were on each side, but the path was open. The smoke pervaded the air, but that could not be helped.

The townspeople gathered to witness the spectacle, if only momentarily. There was nothing to be done, and it was only Nazeem's house. It's not like he was a treasured member of society. Yey, even some found some time to jeer at him, saying he got what he deserved, before retreating into the night.

Where would he stay now? At least for this night, that was more immediately relevant. Surely Brenuin would turn him away, considering how rude he was to the wretch before. The Jarl's castle would be closed by now. He may have to consider the inn, like the common folk... It was better than freezing to death, the sun wouldn't be up for hours.

Nazeem watched the flames fade through his peripheral vision on his way to the inn. The room was acquired without event, and he laid down in the bed so used often by others. That thought would be a constant voice throughout the night. Other people had been here. Memories might had been made here.

Now there's a sobering thought. This bed had been a vestige in so many others' journeys. What a time to be suddenly aware of other people's lives, hm? His house just burnt down, and he's never been so scared of meaningless shadows.

Creak.

Creak.

Slow, purposeful treading up the stairs to his room. Dare not move, Nazeem, lest you make anyone aware that you're here.

The door opens. There is no doubt, the intruder knows he is here.

"Would you like some food or drink?"

Nazeem lets out a sigh both mental and physical that could have rivaled the entire Stormcloak war in its effort.

"No, you silly peasant, can't you see me laying down, trying to sleep?"

It felt good to put someone down again. Nazeem began to feel much more like himself, confident, controlling over the situation, as the maid closed the door in silent shame. The rushing footsteps down the stairs raised his ego with each sorrowful creak. Now, to get some proper sleep.

Creak.

By his bedside. It was so sudden, but this maid came back in, after he dismissed her? How dare she? This lowly knave will feel the wrath of Nazeem, one she won't soon forget!

He turns to open his mouth, ready to spit out venomous words as his mind could throw them together, but he never got to finish it. A sharply angled mace had smashed his face in, and the last thing that his one remaining eye would see before everything faded would be what had haunted his recent days.

Amber circles.


End file.
